


i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

by pentaghastly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, shameless fluff with a bit of smut, that's literally all it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers that he’s bidding her farewell, hears her own voice call out a slightly strained “<em>dareth shiral, Commander</em>” to his retreating back, hears Cassandra chuckle below her breath behind her - and oh, she’ll have words with the warrior woman later, but <em>shit</em>, she cannot move her legs, and she absently thinks that they should probably call Solas and inform him that his magic is needed, that the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces has broken the Herald of Andraste.</p>
<p>(or, <em>"you know you're doomed when you make Cullen look smooth in comparison"</em>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. shit

The first time she meets him, she had been slightly more concerned with...well, with not dying.

The second time is the same, but different.

The same, because she is still acutely aware of the gaping hole to the heavens that has opened up above their heads; the throbbing in her hand will be sure to remind her, Sidhiel knows, should she be so careless as to forget. Different because there is no rift in the war room, and no rage demon threatening to burn her flesh off her body, and the haze of adrenaline has faded from her vision - it is then that she sees him.

And _oh_ , does she see him.

He’s a shem. And a templar, she gathers quickly enough (and if his hand twitches over his sword slightly when she enters the room, she gracefully acts as though she does not notice, just as he does when her hand flexes at the admission of his former title). In a word, he is _dangerous_ , far too much so, and it is inherent danger to which she attributes the erratic beat of her heart, the quickening of her pulse, the all-too-familiar burn that courses beneath the copper of her skin. 

That, and not the thin line of a scar that runs over his lip, or the honey glow of his eyes, or the span of his hands as they trace over the map, or -

_No._

She will not be a foolish little da’len, weak in the knees over a shemlen man she has known less than a moment. Pleasant to look at, certainly, but she forces the word _”templar”_ to ring in her head like an alarm - no longer, he claims, but how close is that to the truth? How many of her people have had their lives stolen by those hands, she wonders, and she almost certainly does not flush when her mind beings to ponder what...other things they may be capable of doing. She does not care. She does _not_ care. He will not affect her.

She also, most definitely, does not run out of the room without a second glance once the meeting is concluded.

\------

After that, it is easier.

Not _easy_ , of course, because sometimes the Commander will smile at her from across the training yard, or from the other side of the war table, and the smile is crooked and tugs up at the scar in the corner of his lip and Creators, she hates him for it, but she wants to tear that stupid feather thing off of his absurdly broad shoulders and - _no_ it’s certainly not easy. Sidhiel finds herself wondering absently if it ever will be, or if perhaps it is a side-effect of the mark, that along with giving her the power to close rifts it also makes her loose all self-respect, all semblance of sanity. Being chronically attracted to her handsome Commander - she supposes there are worse ailments to suffer from.

So not easy, but certainly easier, because they’re kept so busy around Haven that they hardly have a moment to speak with one another. He stays with his troops, and she spends the majority of her time in the Hinterlands, performing menial tasks which she doubts, in the long run, will impact the Inquisition at all. She’s not sure exactly how much elfroot they have gathered by now, but she’s almost certain it’s far, far too much to ever actually be of use.

They go days without speaking, long, _blissful_ days where the only acceleration of her pulse comes from combat rather than the obnoxious curl of Cullen’s lip, where the only flush on her cheeks is from the sharp bite of Haven’s cold winds, rather than the accidental brush of his gloved hands against her shoulder.

_Pathetic_.

She cannot avoid him forever, however, and it seems as if he makes it part of his job description to ensure that she doesn’t. One week since the first war room meeting, barely more than polite greetings and talk of the Inquisition exchanged between them, and he corners her after a conversation with Cassandra, seemingly ignorant to the way she practically freezes once he stands too close. It’s a small victory - it is one thing for Sidhiel to know the way her body reacts to his presence, but if he were to? She would not be able to live with her embarrassment.

“The troops look well, do you not think?”

It takes her a moment of staring at him stupidly to realize he genuinely wants her opinion, and the elf turns her sharp gaze over to the soldiers fighting near by, grateful for the distractions. “They do,” she agrees, nodding in approval. “You’ve done well, Commander. You may just make an army of them yet.”

He looks far too proud at her words, back straightening ever-so-slightly as he turned his attention back to her. “It is your influence as well, you know. You must know that the men look up to you greatly, Herald.”

“And what do you think of me, Commander?” A purely innocent question at heart, but the words slip out of her mouth far too teasing, _far_ too flirty, and for a moment she wonders whether if the mark has the power to conjure a rift and swallow her whole.. And Cullen - Creators, poor Cullen looks as though he had been slapped, and she thinks that the pure shock on his face might possibly have comical if she were not so certain it mirrored her own perfectly. 

(But was it not it just her luck that he happened to look even _more_ handsome when he blushed? If she had ever doubted that he had been placed in her life for the sole purpose of torturing her, that doubt had now been wiped out irrevocably with the ridiculous flush that covered his cheeks).

“What do...I…?” _Shit_ , she had broken him. The Herald of Andraste had broken the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, broken him to the point where he could hardly formulate a sentence, and she was going to have to explain to everyone that she had done so by accidental flirting. He seemed to recover quick enough, however, clearing his throat with a cough and still decidedly not meeting her eyes but no longer looking as though he might flee at any moment, and for that she sent a silent prayer up to Mythal before he spoke. “I...well, I think that if there is any person who would be able to end this madness, it would be you. And I think that I - _we_ , the Inquisition - are incredibly lucky to have you.”

Oh.

Well then.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers that he’s bidding her farewell, hears her own voice call out a slightly strained “ _dareth shiral, Commander_ ” to his retreating back, hears Cassandra chuckle below her breath behind her - and oh, she’ll have words with the warrior woman later, but _shit_ , she cannot move her legs, and she absently thinks that they should probably call Solas and inform him that his magic is needed, that the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces has broken the Herald of Andraste.


	2. mutual humiliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that, it gets harder.

After that, it gets harder.

Not just harder, but _humiliating_. He says hello to her while she’s taking a sip of water and she dribbles it all down her face; he smiles at her during a war council and she knocks over half of the pieces on the map; she comes across him training in the yard with one of the recruits, sweaty and intense and _glorious_ , and she literally turns and runs in the opposite direction, praying to the Creators, the Maker, _whoever_ , that he would not notice her hasty retreat.

Humiliating.

 _But not_ , she reminds herself, _a crush_.

Crushes were childish. Crushes were for little da’len who knew nothing of the outside world, who had no concerns beyond what they would be eating for their next meal, and how long they could run off and explore the forest before one of the adults noticed that they were missing. Crushes were _not_ for leaders of armies, or members of the Inquisition, or mages with a glowing green hand that was the key to closing a giant tear into the Fade.

They were also, without a doubt, not for Dalish mages to have on shemlen Templars, even if said Templar claimed he was one no longer, and even he was a thousand times more handsome than the few men she had been interested in back when she was with her clan.

So she steadfastly ignores Varric’s teasing and Leliana’s and Josephine’s hushed whispers, and, most ardently, the way her heart races and her palms sweat and her head spins every time he enters the room.

It is, without a doubt, _not_ a crush.

\-------

"Are templars also expected to give up... physical temptations?"

It had all been going so well until then, honestly. They had talked about his family, about his life in the Order, _normal_ things. Sidhiel had gotten through the entire conversation without stuttering once, without a single slip up or suggestive comment or even a blush. It had actually felt...for lack of a better word, natural, as if Cullen was not a Templar and she was not a Dalish apostate that some were calling the Herald of their shemlen god, and for a brief, glorious moment, she had been able to pretend like she didn't want to tear his clothing off at every possible opportunity. 

But, as Varric had so kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, luck was not often on her side, and apparently it was wishful thinking for her to go more than a single conversation without completely humiliating herself in front of him. And humiliating _him_ as well, it seemed, if the shocking shade of crimson he was turning were any indication.

Good. If he is to be the cause of her suffering, then it was only fair that he should suffer along with her.

“Physical? Why...Why would you - ?” Sid almost felt bad for him - she would have, at least, were she not so focused on keeping her feet planted in the ground and forcefully preventing herself from running madly in the opposite direction. That may have worked once, but she is almost halfway certain that he would notice if she were to attempt it again. “That's not expected. Templars can marry, although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission. Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion but it's, um, not required.”

How is he so _calm_? In no more than half a moment it is as though he has collected himself entirely, while she still remains, hoping beyond hope that a rift might appear in the ground and suck her straight into the fade. What excuses could she make to leave? Did they need more elfroot? There was always a shortage of the damn plant, she could just tell him she needed to go pick more and -

“Have you?”

Oh. Oh Creators, _no._

“Me?” That was it. She is leaving, stealing a horse from the stables in the dead of the night and running back to her clan. They would figure out a way to close the breach without her, right? And if they could not, well, they would just have to cross that bridge when they came to it. “I...um...no. I've taken no such vows. Maker’s breath - can we speak of something else?”  
 _No_. No, they most certainly could not, and not because she did not want to talk to him any longer, but because Sidhiel was entirely terrified of what might slip out of her mouth, were she to spend another moment in his presence. “Actually, that’s...all I wanted to know.” She begins her retreat quickly, before she is given the opportunity to humiliate herself further, and offers him a small smile as she turns her back. “I am sure you have more important things to be doing, and I have taken up far too much of your time already. Dareth shiral, Commander.”

She is nearly away from him, nearly _safe_ , when his voice calls out to her from behind, stopping her in her tracks. “What you said to me last - ‘dareth sharal’, was it? I have heard you have said it before, I believe. Would you mind if I asked you what it means?”

Creators bless him, his attempt at Elvish is horrendous, and for a moment she cannot help but thank the Gods that there is at least one thing in this world that he is bad at. “ _Dareth shiral._ I suppose in the common tongue, the closest translation I could think would be ‘safe journey’. A farewell, of sorts.”

Cullen smiles at her then, smiles like the fucking sun coming out from behind the clouds, smiles like she has just granted him the gift of the world and more, and she would absolutely hate him for it if it were not the most wonderful sight she had ever seen. “Thank you. Your language is very beautiful; if you don't mind, I will have to ask you to teach me more in the future. Until then, dareth shiral, Herald.”

With that he was gone, back to commanding his troops as if he had not just left her rendered entirely speechless in his wake. After a heartbeat she manags to will her feet to move, to take her far, _far_ away for the Commander and his smiles and his blushes and his awful, adorable attempts at Elvish, although she cannot will her heart to stop pounding in her chest, or the red to fade from his cheeks, or the shaking in her hands to cease.

She is, in a word, screwed.

\--------------

 _He’s screwed_.

She - the Herald - is far away from him now, far enough away that he should by all rights able to relax, to focus his mind on something, _anything_ other than the sound of her voice, or the way her lips quirk up slightly more to the left than the right when she smiles, tugging the tattoos that adorn her face along with it, or the rich velvet of her voice when she speaks in her mother tongue, or -

But no, apparently he is not even capable or that. She is his colleague, Cullen knows, and it is his job to _support_ her, not lust after her like some green young boy who had never seen a woman before, let alone lain with one. And yet there he is, wondering what it would be like to wind his fingers through her crown of wild curls, how many freckles cover her skin, dark and smooth and so utterly tempting, or what her lips would feel like against his own.

His eyes find her without even meaning to, something which happens more often than he cares to admit, speaking with Harritt by the smithy, and he wonders, not for the first time, if the elf is even aware how firmly she has him under his thumb.


	3. palinode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidhiel is still not convinced she does, in fact, return from Redcliffe at all.

She leaves for Redcliffe ready - smiling, confident, staff strapped firmly to her back, she cannot fail. They believe in her, her friends, they _believe_ in her, and somehow because of this she believes in herself. She leaves for Redcliffe, and when she leaves she leaves (aside from the gaping green gash in the palm of her hand) relatively whole.

She returns from Redcliffe…

Sidhiel is still not convinced she does, in fact, return from Redcliffe at all.

Not as the same person, in any case. If she looks into the mirror long enough she can make out the general shapes, but they’re wrong and the edges are fuzzy and blur into one, and it ends up giving her such a headache that she stops trying to recognize herself at all. Sometimes she cannot remember where she is or where she is walking or even remember her name and to be honest she mostly stops trying.

The past is the past, they say, but what do you do when you have glimpsed into your own future to see only death? How do you react? They will try to change it, of course - but _can_ they?

She is not a prophet, or a leader, or a soldier, or a spy. She is...she is a _child_ , who embarked on a mission to prove to her Keeper that she could be more than a scholar before exceptional luck (or, more accurately, the exceptional lack of it) landed her without Clan, without direction, without a home, in a world on the brink of distinction that was expecting her to bring them back.

But she had _failed_. She had seen it with their own eyes - should it happen again, chances were they would not have a magical amulet to help them turn to the past to fix their foolish mistakes.

They all try to help, in their own ways. Varric tells her stories of Hawke (all entirely new since _The Tale of the Champion_ was not, in fact, common amongst members of her clan), and she listens with an only-slightly feigned interest. Cassandra spars with her, quick and efficient and never flinching while she casts her spells; Solas tells her of his travels in the Fade, lacking the embellishments which Varric usually includes in his tales but no less passionate, no less involved; Sera gets her piss drunk and does not question whether the Herald of Andraste should be seen getting sick in a barrel outside the tavern; Vivienne braids her hair and tells her all about the Circle, about Orlais and life outside the forest walls.

Leliana teaches her stealth, how to see and not be seen, and sits with her in silence when her hands begin to shake and she cannot find her breath. Josephine brings her hot water and does not pry, and sneaks strawberries and biscuits into her room before she goes to sleep. Cullen remains much the same, reporting her on the status of the newly-allied mages and engaging her in casual chatter - to anyone it may not have seemed like much, but the sense of normalcy his company brings is so refreshing it nearly brings her to tears.

And Dorian...Dorian grieves too, in his own way. She sees it clear in his eyes - he compensates with over-dramatic gestures and gilded, pretty words, but she does not miss the flashes of guilt that come and go like lightning across his face, hears the undercurrent of fear hidden beneath his sarcastic quips; he knows as well as she just what is at risk if they fail again.

If _she_ fails again.

…

“Josephine asked me to bring this to you. I think she may be worried you have frozen to death - you've been sitting out here in the cold for hours.”

She hadn’t even noticed his approach - keen eyes had been trained on the frozen lake for...she does not know how long, exactly, but long enough for the day’s light to begin to fade and the bitter chill of night to seep into the air. Long enough; they would be setting out for the Storm Coast on the morrow to recruit the Chargers and she knew that she would be falling asleep in her saddle, but Sidhiel no longer enjoyed what she saw when she closed her eyes, did not care to see what surprises her dreams might hold.

Cullen was standing above her, holding a cup of what she could only assume was her nightly hot water. A quick sniff of the proffered glass once she had taken it from him confirmed her suspicions, although she could not help her smile when she noticed the hint of lemon as well - Sidhiel had tried the fruit only once as a child, remembered mentioning enjoying it to Josie in passing during idle conversation, and could not fathom how much coin had been expended to procure some; she would have to thank her friend for her thoughtfulness when morning came.

“Has it been that long? I barely noticed the cold.” She is well aware that he knows she is lying, but to her relief he does not question her words, merely seats himself on the damp wood of the dock beside her. “I was just…” Her sentence goes unfinished - she does not know _what_ she was doing, has no memory of why she is even there, and from the look on his face she knows he understands.

“I used to do the same.”

There is a tone in his voice she has never heard from him before, but she recognizes it well enough from her own - fear, and sorrow, and guilt, and a longing for things to return to the way they were once more, mingled with the bitter knowledge that they never will. She does not enjoy his pain but cannot help but take comfort in the fact that she is not alone in her grief, despite them stemming from two different places.

“After Kirkwall,” he continues, and if there is a slight tremble in his voice she pretends she does not notice it. “I used to spend hours simply sitting. Not crying, or mourning, or even thinking - before Cassandra found me, before the Inquisition, I used to doubt whether or not I was even truly alive. I wondered if had not died in the rebellion along with my brothers and sisters in arms, whether I was just...a _leftover_. I questioned if I was simply a fragment of my conscious mind that continued to linger in a place where it did not belong. After a while, I think I may have started to believe it.”

They do not look at one another, and she is thankful for it. To be honest, Sidhiel is afraid of what she might see written on his face - she is afraid it might reflect her own too clearly.

“Does it ever go away?” Her voice is calmer than she might have thought it possibly could be - or perhaps it was not, and her mind is just too foggy, to unfocused, to notice the difference. It likely does not matter; she does not think that Cullen is in a state to notice either, and if he was he would not comment. “The guilt. The feeling like no matter what you do, you’re bound to fail. Does it fade, after a time?”

They fall quiet for a moment too long, long enough for Sidhiel to know what his answer was bound to be; it was the kind of silence that told far more than words could, that spoke the truth frighteningly clearly though the absence of a lie, but it did not take her by surprise. It had been the answer she was expecting all along: she would carry the weight of her failures with her until the end of her days, and in a way the knowledge was comforting. Comforting, because it was no less than she deserved.

“No, it does not.” His words come almost unwillingly, although to hear them spoken aloud, to be admitted without lie, comes as somewhat of a relief. "Although it...it it does get easier, if you share the burden with someone else.”

A gloved hand finds hers despite his pointed determination not to glance her way, and through the corner of her eyes Sidhiel thinks she might be able to see the familiar flush paint his cheeks, see it work it’s way to his ears, and although the better part of her insists it must be the bite of the cold, the snap of the wind, she thought that she might like the other voice better, the voice which tells her it is nothing less than the feel of her hand grasped firmly in his own.

So she squeezes, once, twice, likely tighter than she should but enough so that he could feel it through the thick casing of leather, and smiles.

“I think it might,” she agrees, and for the first time since her return, she tells him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so painfully cheesy i am so sorry (but honestly i'm not at all).


	4. we could be friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something strangely satisfying to her about that brief instant in time, about knowing that she can have such an affect on him (especially now, when she is lying in bed sick and a disaster and practically incapacitated), something that gives her a sense of gratification she does not think she will ever tire of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked for sick!lavellan/cullen, and who am I to deny my friends?
> 
> (I hope none of you are lactose-intolerant, because there's a lot of cheese coming your way)

“I am not - I am _not_ \- sick.”

She can practically hear Cassandra rolling her eyes - hear, but not see, because at the moment Sidhiel does not trust herself to open her eyes. She doesn’t even know where she is, not for sure; she’s lying down, so she’s likely in her bedroom, but every time she tries to look up and check the world shifts on it’s axis and all her surroundings begin to blur into one until she cannot tell where the floor meets the walls, whether she is looking at the roof or the ground.

But she is not - she is _not_ \- sick.

“You fainted in the middle of the war room, Herald.” Had she? That sounded vaguely familiar - there was a rather considerable gap in her memory from the beginning of the council until the when she had awoken just moments before, so it certainly wasn’t an impossibility. Not a sign that she was sick, however; she had likely just not eaten a large enough breakfast, or perhaps she was simply lacking in sleep. “I ended up having to carry you to bed on my back. You are surprisingly heavy, for such a small woman.”

She _should_ have been insulted by that, but the most Sidhiel could bring herself to do was dismiss the warrior’s words with a lazy wave. "Well, that means nothing! That room is kept far too warm, do I not always say as much?”

Cassandra’s quiet scoff told her that the woman had noticed that _no_ , she did not, and the elf was beginning to feel that this was a battle which she did not stand a chance at winning. She was not even sure that she _wanted_ to win, not any longer - her bed was exceptionally comfortable, and a steady haze was slipping further and further over her mind, until she could no longer even attempt to keep her eyes open.

(She falls asleep in a blink, but not before she feels Cassandra give her an awkward pat on the head. She hopes that she can remember it when she wakes up - it is always fun to try and make the woman flustered.)

…

It was - well, Sid didn’t _know_ how long it was before she opened her eyes again, possibly minutes, possibly days, but she did know that the instant that she opened them she regretted it.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“I should hope not. The Herald of Andraste, taken down by a common cold? That would be more than a little demoralizing for the troops.”

 _Mythal’s arse_ , she had not been expecting an answer - she had assumed that she was alone, because really, why would anybody be lurking about in a sick woman’s room while she slept? - and she certainly had not been expecting an answer from _him_ , because even though she could barely focus her eyes, even though it felt like a dragon had seated itself atop her head, she would recognize that voice anywhere, could easily make the faint hint of amusement laced in with genuine concern.

And, after the initial shock, she was genuinely quite happy so see him - that was, happy to see him until she remembered where she was, _why_ she was there - because her nose was running like a damn had been broken and her eyes were practically swollen shut and she was certain she was sweating buckets, and the last person she needed to see her looking like this, as if she had been trampled by a herd of halla, was currently standing above her bed smiling at her as if she was not completely and utterly repulsive to look at.

But it’s too late - he’s seen her now, seen the state that she’s in, and even if she had the energy to attempt to quickly make herself look more presentable she doubts that the image of her looking like...like _this_ , will ever be gone from his mind. 

_Brilliant._ But Creators guide her, she refuses to be alone in her humiliation - if she is going to suffer in front of him, well, she’s going to have to do everything in her power to ensure that he suffers too. Turnabout is only fair play, after all.

“Were you watching me sleep, Commander?”

And she may be on her deathbed, may be hardly able to see two feet in front of her, but she knows for a fact that he is blushing from head to toe, knows his eyes are flitting about the room helplessly, searching for something to latch on to that is as far away from her face as possible, knows that he is struggling in a desperate (read: _adorable_ ) attempt to come up with something slightly witty to say in response.

It never lasts long, her disarmament of him. It’s actually quite impressive, in Sidhiel’s opinion, the way he can regain his usual flawless poise after a mere heartbeat, no more than a breath with his usual composure gone. But the moment before he does gain it back - there’s something strangely satisfying to her about that brief instant in time, about knowing that she can have such an affect on him (especially now, when she is lying in bed sick and a disaster and practically incapacitated), something that gives her a sense of gratification she does not think she will ever tire of.

Of course, when he bounces back he bounces back spectacularly, but she thinks it might still be worth it.

“Dorian actually asked me to bring this to you, said drinking it should help you feel better.” Cullen places something on the table beside her - she cannot smell it, but from what she can tell it is a mug, the contents inside a sheer mystery. “He said he would bring it himself, but did not want to be anywhere near you. I cannot say I blame him; you look...exceptionally contagious.”

Exceptionally contagious? Sidhiel doesn’t know exactly what that means, but thinks it sounds suspiciously like an attempt at a kind way of telling her she looks like a disaster, and since it is more than likely true she cannot really blame Dorian for wanting to stay as far away from her as possible either. 

“And what about you? Do you have no fear of death, Commander?”

“Templar,” he explains with a shrug, as if it is the answer for everything. “We hardly ever get sick. Must be the lyrium.”

“Mage. _And_ elf,” she retaliates, quirking an eyebrow. “We get sick even less. Unless...do you think I could be poisoned? I wouldn’t put it past Maryden - I think she might be jealous of my friendship with Sera, and everybody knows you can’t trust a bard.”

“Perhaps.” He seated himself at the edge of her bed, picking up the mug once more and offering it out to her. “ _Or_ , perhaps it is simply a combination of not enough sleep and far too much stress for one person to endure.” The drink was warm, but not overly-so, although she could not begin to suspect what it might taste like, which she figured was more than likely a good thing. It did, however, begin to lift the fog from her mind somewhat, and she slowly sat up further before sipping again.

“Well, if you don't mind I think I’m still going to go with the poison theory. It’s far more dramatic.”

Cullen smiled at her, crooked, beaming, _bright_ , and it must have been the effects of Dorian's drink, but the weight in her head was lifting itself, and she no longer felt the urge to close her eyes, not even for a second, not even for a moment.

“Would you stay with me, for a bit?” The question slipped out before she could catch herself, far too late to take it back - and she didn’t _want_ to, she realized, despite the blush that was rising to her cheeks. “Just for a few minutes. Being sick is really very boring, especially when no one wants to be with in a hundred feet of you for fear of catching their own death. But," she pauses then, stomach fluttering, and she blames it on the cold. "you really don’t have to. I know you are exceptionally busy, and I wouldn't want to keep you away from your duty just because I'm a touch lonely.”

The crooked smile grows, and it is like staring directly into the sun and this time she has to look away, does not wish to add “temporary blindness” to her current list of ailments.

He stays with her, of course. 

He stays with her for far more than a few minutes, stays with her until the day begins to come to and end and she can hardly keep herself awake any longer, stays with her for far longer than he should, and they talk about foolish things, crack jokes and tell stories of childhoods and families and friends and the lives they left behind, and it is _nice_ ; it is beyond nice, it is -

His hand brushes hers, just for a second, just for a small fragment of time, and it is...it is becoming far, far more than she ever thought she would allow it to be.


	5. leitmotif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven is burning, and she has not done enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst ahoy! don't worry, the next chapters will be much lighter B)
> 
> (they'll also be significantly longer - I much prefer writing post-Haven, so expect about 2x longer chapters following this one from now on!)

It -

It _wasn’t_ -

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

It is not her death that concerns her - not that the idea of eternity had ever seemed to be an appealing prospect, but Sidhiel had known, had _always_ known, that she was running on borrowed time. She had twisted fate in her grasp; she should have died at the Conclave, should have burned with the rest of them, but she had slipped through Falon’Din’s clutches, and she knew the nature of her gods well enough to know that it would be but a heartbeat before he claimed what was rightfully his.

But it…

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Haven is burning, and she has not done enough.

Sidhiel tries to count her footsteps, tries to time them with her beating heart, but they are both coming slower now, and she does not know how much longer she will be able to lift her feet off of the ground, place one in front of the other. She looks up, up at the branches above her head and the leaves begin to blur into one, and for whatever it is worth she is thankful that if she is to die, she will die in the forest and rest amongst the trees and return to the earth from which she came.

(Because she knows what humans do to their dead, has seen the blazing pyres with her own eyes, and is grateful that though she will die, she will not burn.)

And they...they will move on. Her hand glows green but it is fainter now, a whisper, and she hopes that she has done enough, hopes that Cassandra will lead them forward with unshakable conviction, and Leliana with faith and Vivienne with diligence and Josephine with grace, hopes that Dorian will find home and Bull will find peace and Sera will find answers and Blackwall will find purpose, hopes Solas will learn and discover and grow, hopes that - 

Hopes that Cullen will not blame himself, and if he does (which she knows that he will), hopes that he does not force himself to carry his guilt alone.

Her knees are wet and - is she kneeling? she does not remember when she stopped moving forward - she no longer feels the cold, rather feels a sweet warmth spreading through her bones, like the embers of a dying fire, and she hears a voice and it is _his_ voice, and she sees a face and it is _his_ face, and she wants to tell him to smile so that his scar scrunches up in the way she so loves, but she does not remember how to turn thoughts into letters into words and her vision is fading and she thinks that yes, if she is to die, let him be the last thing she sees.

It is a lovely dream to die to. She must remember to thank Falon’Din for allowing her at least this much.  
…

Except -

She does not die, apparently.

At first Sid thinks that she must have entered into the Beyond, that that is the only place she could possible awaken, but no, that would be impossible because she _hurts_ , the mortal kind of hurt, the kind where her muscles ache and her eyes strain and her head throbs, and she can hear Leliana and Josephine speaking in hushed tones behind her, can feel someone pressing a cloth to her forehead, the crackling warmth of the fire seeping into her bones.

And something - someone? - grasping her hand, keeping her tethered to the earth, and yes, this must have been where Falon’Din failed yet again, because how can she leave when she has been anchored so tightly to the ground? The hand that holds her encases her own, twice her size, and the grip is firm but it is tender and loving and soft, and every few heartbeats a finger brushes the back of her palm slowly, evenly, and she wonders if death’s grasp would feel just as sweet.

She does not wish to find out.

She cannot speak, cannot move, cannot open her eyes, so instead she listens - listens to the steady flow of his breathing, lets it speak to her - _”they are here, they are alive, you have not failed them yet”_ \- and she tries to make hers match his own so that their chests are rising and falling in time, and when he squeezes her hand once, lightly, a pressure so gentle another might not even notice it there, she thinks that he must hear her, too.

…

“I...am sorry.”

It’s the first thing she says to him since she has awoken, _truly_ awoken, and despite the truth behind the statement Sidhiel cannot help but be embarrassed by it’s inadequacy. He deserves so much more, _so_ much more, but she does not know how to give it to him, does not even know where to begin. 

And yet Cullen still has the kindness to look surprised, almost...affronted, as if her words are completely unwarranted. If he is trying to save her feelings she hopes he knows it will not help - she knows how many soldiers they lost, knows how many friends _he_ lost, knows how many lives could have been saved if she had done more, if she had been prepared, if she had had the foresight to look ahead, to try to understand, to not be so blinded by what was in front of her.

“Sorry?” Yes, that is confusion in his tone, and not just confusion but disbelief, and she wonders how such a smart man can be so...willfully ignorant.

“I could have done more.”

His grip on her arm comes hard, unexpected, but not painful, not angry - his eyes bore into hers and he looks as though he is trying to burn a hole into her mind, his gaze filled with an intensity she has only seen from him before on the battlefield, and this is not the way he held her hand the night before, this is desperate and frightened and it is -

It is -

She doesn’t know _what_ it is.

“I do not want to hear you apologize again, Lavellan. Not to me, not to anyone.” His words are tight, thick with emotion she cannot identify, and her clan name sounds strange coming from his mouth. She wonders how many times he has called her by it before; she may have to tell him to do so more often. “None of us expected this. There was nothing more to be done.”

“But I should have _tried!_ ” If her voice quivers he does not acknowledge it - a blessing, she thinks. If he did, she thinks she may begin to cry; that is something which neither of them wish to experience. “I may not believe I am the herald of your god, but _they_ do, and I failed them, Cullen. What will they see when they look at me now? The elf, the mage, the liar, the one who lead her followers to their deaths? You lost soldiers, allies, friends - how can you stand there and tell me there was nothing more I could have done? How can you not - how can you not _blame_ me? Their blood is on my hands!”

Somewhere in the back of her mind Sidhiel thinks she might be shaking, thinks she might be gripping too tightly onto the tent pole beside her for support, but she no longer feels connected to her body, no longer knows how to orient herself in the world that surrounds her, is aware of nothing but his right hand wrapped around her forearm, his left turning her face so that she is looking at him, so that she cannot look away, and Creators, she doesn’t _want_ to. She remembers, remembers the last thing she saw before her world turned black, remembers _him_.

She remembers feeling…

She remembers feeling safe.

“Sidhiel,” and this time she knows, knows for certain that he has never called her by her given name before, knows she never wants to hear him call her anything else again. “You did not fail them, or me, or all of us. You _saved_ us, and we owe you - we owe you everything.”

It is too much. It’s more than she deserves. It’s not even true, it cannot be, but he is staring at her with such an honesty, such an openness in his eyes and it terrifies her, and no matter how badly she wants to, she cannot bring herself to argue with him. Instead she raises her hand to place it against the one that cups her cheek, and she is all too conscious of the fact that it is inappropriate, that they stand too close, that she will look back on this in the morning and flush and stutter at the indecency, but at the moment -

At the moment, she needs to know that she is there, that she is _whole_ , and his touch is the only thing assuring her that she is.

And so she allows herself just a second, just a breath, allows herself to forget, allows herself to _forgive_ , and for the briefest time it is a salve on the wounds that are festering inside, but it is temporary relief. A step backwards and his hand falls from her face, and Sidhiel convinces herself not to mourn its loss - the wind bites against her cheek sharp, cold, and she steels herself against the frost.

“I will not fail you - fail the Inquisition - again.”

Her back is turned before he can say another word.


	6. totidem verbis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _totidem verbis:_ with just so many words; in these words.

Skyhold…

Skyhold is…

She doesn’t know what it is, really.

Sidhiel is thankful for the safety that comes with their new home, she really is. She sees the people, those who follow and those who fight alike, sees them with food and shelter and warmth, sees them playing out in the gardens or deep in their cups in the tavern, sees them _alive_ , and she knows that this place has saved them. Had Solas not lead them there...honestly, she does not wish to think on it, on what would have happened if she had failed her people a second time.

(Because she _had_ failed them, despite what Cullen insisted, despite what _they_ insisted when they looked up at her with wide, thankful eyes. She did not deserve their faith, not anymore.)

But three weeks into their stay in the once-abandoned fortress, and she cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong.

She knows what it is, of course. She had known it would be an issue when she first placed her hand against the cold stone of the sturdy walls, the walls that would not bend, would not break, the walls that were keeping them safe, the walls that were keeping them _in_.

She did not like it. Being trapped.

Did not like that, were she to follow her feet, they would inevitably guide her to another wall, another gate, another place she could not pass. It wasn’t that she was planning on escaping - Sidhiel knew she was far too deep into this whole fiasco to disappear into the shadows now, no matter how badly she may occasionally want to - but that she did not even have the choice. 

The Dalish were not meant to be kept between buildings and walls. They were not meant to sit on iron thrones and doll out judgement, to bow to flat-eared nobles as if they were not complicit in the persecution of her people. She sat on the cold metal chair and her feet itched, legs quivered - but she stayed where she was, ever the leader, having more and more like one of the shemlen with each passing hour. It terrifies her.

What is worse - each day it terrifies her less.

…

If she likes one place in Skyhold, however, it is the battlements.

From there she can see the world; from there, she feels the breeze coiling thin fingers through her hair and she is no longer confined. On occasion she shares a small nod, a kind smile at one of the soldiers making their rounds, but for the most part she is left on her own, and it is...comforting. To say the least.

And occasionally something better happens, and Cullen leaves his office to join her. Sometimes for but a minute, sometimes for more, but despite their disagreement weeks prior she finds herself more at peace in his presence than anyone else in the castle, save for perhaps Cassandra and Dorian, and although Sidhiel thinks she must know why that is she does not wish to dwell on it. Not yet, at least.

On this particular day when he comes across her at her usual perch it is well past nightfall, and although she herself feels near collapsing where she stands she cannot help but notice that Cullen looks as handsome as ever. Does he even need sleep? She does not see how he possibly can - when would he ever find the time? Between training the recruits and dealing with visiting dignitaries and strategizing at war councils, the elf does not think he could possibly have a moment to spare each day for himself. It makes her quite sad, if she is being honest with herself, but he appears to appreciate the distractions, so for the time being she keeps her concerns to herself.

Instead she merely quirks an eyebrow at him, trying to calm the fluttering of her heart when faced with the small smile which is playing at his lips.

 _His lips._ She thinks about them far, far more often than she should.

“Shouldn’t you be heading off to bed, Commander?” Her voice is teasing, light, but then she thinks of all the wonderful places that Cullen plus a bed could lead, and is suddenly exceptionally grateful for the gentle darkness the night is offering, praying that he cannot see the flush that paints her cheeks. 

“I could say the same of you.” He’s at her side now, pauldrons nearly brushing her cheeks, and she’s at once startled by the size difference between them - Sidhiel is short, always has been, even by elven standards, and she has seen enough human men by now to know that Cullen is larger than most, so beside him she feels relatively...inadequate. Of course, she knows that with a flick of her wrist she could make those absurd feathers draped across his shoulders burst into flames, but still. It’s slightly demoralizing. 

“I don’t sleep much, not any more. I haven’t ever since…”

“Since the Circle?” She doesn’t mean to pry, really, and judging by the softness of his features as he stares out at the surrounding landscape, he knows it as well.

“Since long before, I’m afraid.” There is a heaviness that falls between them, and he seems to sense it as well, quickly changing the topic to less delicate areas. “You get used to it, after a while. At the very least it gives me a chance to sort out the mountain of paperwork and letters I’ve been putting off.”

“Commander Rutherford, procrastinating? I’m _shocked_.”

“Yes, well,” His cheeks flush a deep scarlet at her teasing, likely because her words are also largely truth. She _is_ surprised - for the relatively brief time she had known him, Cullen seemed to be one to follow the rules to the letter; it was hard to imagine him putting _anything_ off, let alone work. “What can I say? I always did have quite the rebellious streak.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. How else would you have found yourself here?”

She matches his smile with her own, and an amicable silence falls over them - it’s surprisingly warm, considering the sun has set, but perhaps her body has just adjusted itself to the cold. It does not seep into her bones here like it did at Haven, worm it’s way under her skin like the wet chill of the Storm Coast. It is...it is peaceful, in an odd way, with the stars dotting the sky like point on a map, and Sidhiel can almost pretend that the world is not a mere breath away from ending.

( _Almost_ , but not really. She is not quite so foolish as to allow herself such a dream.)

“I don’t like it here.”

The words escape her before she even realizes she’s speaking them - she’s embarrassed, for a moment, and ashamed, but it is too late to take them back. Cullen is looking down at her, expectant but not judging, and she sighs, shuffles her feet awkwardly a few times before figuring she should probably offer an explanation. She owes him that much.

“Dalish...we don’t have buildings. I mean, that’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? Us being a nomadic race and all - but we don’t. I never even used a tent; every night, from the day I was born until the day I left my clan, I slept under the stars. We don’t have walls; if I wanted to run, I would run. I would always come back, of course, but there was no stone to cut off the path that my feet wanted to travel.” Was she making sense to him? She didn’t know - she didn’t care, not particularly. 

“I feel like an animal trapped in a cage. It feels _wrong_. And it’s not that I want to leave, because I don’t; even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. I just - I look at the walls, and I feel like I’m suffocating. I feel like I’m stuck.”

The look on his face - it is practically unreadable, and although she cannot understand why the blankness of it bothers her. Would he be angry at her confession? She hopes not, but perhaps she deserves it; they are finally safe, for the most part, finally secure. She has no reason to complain, she knows, no reason that is not purely selfish.

“It’s funny.” He speaks so quietly she can hardly make out his words, has to lean in closer to make sure she catches every syllable. “I spent my whole life in walls. The Circle, the Gallows of Kirkwall - before the events in Ferelden, there was safety in them. Comfort, almost. And then -” His voice cuts off, rough, jagged, and he closes his eyes; there are things he cannot tell her yet, she knows, things he wishes to but things he is afraid to, and a light touch to his elbow lets him know that it is okay, that she understands. That whatever he can give her is enough.

“Above my bed, there is a hole in the roof where the stone has collapsed. Josephine keeps asking me if she can fix it, insisting - I do not think I can allow her to.”

His hands grip the stone in front of them tight, enough that his knuckles go white, straining against his skin, and she knows. Her, a life without walls and without fear, of freedom; he, a life inside them, of death and destruction, desperate to run and having nowhere to go. They make an odd pair, the two, but she places her small hand atop his larger one and thinks that, in a strange way, it fits quite well.

But he looks so...he looks so _sad_ , so broken, and so she says the first thing that comes to her mind, the first thing she can think to lessen the pain, just a little bit - 

“I’d never slept in a bed before Haven,” she confesses, and perhaps it is simply a silly little thing, but she cannot help but laugh as she says the words aloud. “The first few weeks - I acted as though half of my scrapes and bruises were from battle, but they were really just from me rolling off the sides in the middle of the night.”

They stare at each other a moment in full silence - her, flushed red with embarrassment; he, eyebrow quirked in disbelief. A moment, and then he’s laughing in a way she’s only heard once or twice before, and the thought that she was the cause of it almost lessened her humiliation. _Almost_.

“You - you _must_ be joking. Even those scratches you said came from a ‘legendary battle’ with a giant bear in the forest outside Haven?”

“All from the bed! I couldn't exactly tell the truth, people likely would not look too kindly on the Inquisition if it's so-called 'Herald' could not even sleep in a bed properly. I had also never seen your odd human eating utensils before - I was convinced a fork was something you used to style your hair.” That only made him laugh harder, and this time she joined in along with him. “That one is hardly my fault, though - why you shemlen are so afraid of eating with your hands is quite simply beyond me.”

It's foolish. It's mortifying. But he's smiling, and he's happy, and she is as well, and she thinks that if confessing her ineptitude at adapting to human culture is enough to brighten his mood this much, it shall be worth it every time.

“You'll have to forgive us lesser humans our mistakes, then. We cannot all be quite so perfect as the Dalish.” Coming from anyone else the words might sound sarcastic, like a dig, but there is a warmth in his voice that cannot be denied, an affection in his touch as he loosens his grip on the stone, turns his right hand over so that it is holding her left, the one that was previously placed atop it, and when he squeezes it is just enough to let her know that he is there.

Sidhiel stares down at where their fingers are entwined, just for a moment, just long enough that she forgets how to speak - he is not wearing his gloves, a rarity, and she can feel each of the small scars that line his skin, the roughness of his palms in contrast to her own; she was a scholar amongst her people, not a hunter, not a fighter, and in contrast to his her hands are delicate, smooth, almost child-like. But his touch is gentle, and kind, and filled with a comfort she has yet to find anywhere else within the towering walls of the fortress.

She runs her thumb over the back of his hand, and he smiles, and perhaps they are not such an odd pair after all.

( _And maybe,_ she thinks, _if she can find a way to make a hole in her roof as well, Skyhold may not be quite so bad as she thought_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaaaaay fluff (kinda)! sorry for the delay in the update, hopefully the longer chapter makes up for it :)
> 
> as always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated :) xx


	7. exordium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _exordium:_ the beginning of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to making Sidhiel in-game, so if you would like to see what she looks like, I have posted pictures of her on my tumblr here!: http://pentaghastly.tumblr.com/tagged/sidhiel-lavellan

At first, Sidhiel doesn’t know what to make of the woman.

There is something...there is _something_ about her that draws the eye, something that keeps it. Perhaps it’s the crooked way she smiles when she cracks a joke, dripping in sarcasm; perhaps it is the well-veiled sadness that lays underneath. Hard to detect, but the elf is has become somewhat of a master of hiding her emotions - so much so that she knows beyond shadow of a doubt when someone else is doing the same thing.

Or perhaps it is in the way she carries herself. Back ramrod straight, eyes never wavering - she is beautiful in the way that a dragon is beautiful, fire and smoke and ashes and death and _grace_ , undeniable grace, and pride. Varric looks at her with a kind of reverence, and she remembers him saying that they were best friends, once, in another lifetime. She thinks they still must be; he hovers beside her like a shadow, a silent guardian, and although Sidhiel knows that people follow her, she does not think she could ever inspire that kind of reverence, or that kind of loyalty.

She doesn’t pity her, not exactly, but she...she isn’t sure quite what it is that she feels, the clawing at her stomach when Hawke speaks of the lover she left behind - an elf, like herself, except from Varric’s tales she thinks that their pointed ears and glowing skin must be where the similarities end.

The woman has the look of someone who has seen far, _far_ too much, whose weary feet have travelled farther, walked longer than they were ever meant to go, and although Sidhiel knows that there is a strength in her that may just be unmatched by any other, she cannot help but wonder how much longer that strength will be able to hold out.

...

She asks Cullen about her, later that night when both Varric and Hawke are far out of earshot. They’re sitting in his office - Sidhiel had wandered in moments before under the ruse of asking for an update on the new recruits, more than satisfied to hear that they were coming along nicely. Not that she was surprised, of course - Cullen seemed to have a way of inspiring loyalty in his charges as well.

He’s seated at his desk, still in full Commander mode despite the dwindling hours of the day, and she’s leaning against the stone wall near the door across from him, studying him intently as he works. Vaguely creepy, perhaps, but he’s fascinating to watch when he’s like this, so intently focused on his work. This is where his talents lie - she has not seen him fight much, not since Haven (and even that was only a brief glimpse) and she knows that he has power, but here, in command, he is natural. Comfortable. She wishes that she could have such confidence.

“Hawke?” He seems surprised that she would even ask, even though she had tried to pass the question off as no more than casual musings. “She’s...well, I didn’t know her all that well, at least not as a person. To all of us she was just The Champion. Someone larger than life, I suppose. Almost like you are, in the sense that it is difficult at times to see past the title. She wasn’t really a person you got to know, especially not for me.”

“Is that because she was a mage?”

It isn’t accusatory, more of a fact than anything else - she may not have known _all_ of the details of Cullen’s past, but she knew enough to know that his history with magic was anything but kind. 

“That is one reason. Probably the largest.” He pushes the parchment that he had been look at previously off to the side - Sidhiel takes that as a sign that, at least for the moment, the conversation has become his focus over his work, and steps closer towards him. “The second would be that I did not get to know anyone in Kirkwall, mage, Templar, or citizen alike. I had enemies, colleagues, and people I was to protect. Hawke...she did not fall into any of those categories. I didn’t really know where to place her. I still don’t.”

She hums in agreement; Sidhiel suspects Hawke is not one to be put in any sort of box. She respects that, she does, even if she does not know what to do with it. If there is one thing she is good at, it is _knowing_ people - their motivations, their goals, their secrets. There are few people who have managed to elude her, even in the slightest bit.

Hawke is one. In some ways, she suspects that Cullen might be another.

And then her mind wanders to another point of what he had said, and she backtracks immediately.

“What did you mean, like me?” _Now_ she is accusatory - not angry, more baffled than anything else. Was she that difficult to get to know? Sidhiel had been under the impression that although guarded around most, she had always been quite open with her advisors and those members of her inner circle. It is the incredulous look on Cullen’s face after she asks her question, however, that speaks volumes otherwise. 

Should she be insulted? Probably, but she can’t seem to bring herself past confusion.

“It’s not a _bad_ thing, per se,” and he sounds like he means it, she really does, so she allows herself to believe him. “And I have certainly moved past it, for the most part. But for the others, the ones who do not see the - not human, I suppose that’s not the right word, but the _person_ side of you - as often as we, it can be difficult to see you as anything but the Herald of Andraste. And now, the leader of the Inquisition.” He looks almost...pitying, and although his words mollify her discomfort somewhat, the look in his eyes does not.

“It is occasionally a struggle, to remember that you are not so different from the rest of us as you seem. That this is foreign to you as well, perhaps more so than anyone else.”

“Oh.” She pauses for a moment, tries to process the things that he’s said - and _okay_ , she supposes it sort-of makes sense, although she’s certainly not happy about it. But Cullen had mentioned that it had been that way for him, at one point, and so clearly the issue is not a permanent one. “And..and what changed that? For you, I mean?”

Sidhiel expects to have to wait a little while for the answer. She expects him to need time to mull it over, to go through their interactions, numerous as they were, and figure out a which point in their relationship ( _friendship_ , she corrects, not quite the same was what ‘relationship’ might imply) things had shifted. That is what she expects, and he does take a pause, to be sure.

She does not, however, expect him to blush quite as fiercely as he does, to shift his gaze back down to focus on his hands, fiddling atop the mahogany surface of his desk. She does not expect him to stutter as he tries to get the words out - it has been a while since she has seen him like this, at such a loss, and to be quite honest, she does not know what to do with herself either.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she jumps in, hoping she might be able to save him from imploding. “If you cannot remember, that is. It honestly isn’t a problem - I’m sure if I bought everyone in Skyhold a few pints of ale the might change their perspective.” Fool-proof, there is not a doubt, but she’s not sure her pockets run quite so deep, and Leliana and Josephine may just murder her if she intoxicates every member of the Inquisition at once.

He shakes his head quickly, insistently, and the flush on his cheeks has begun to descend - not a moment too soon, she thinks, as she is certain the ferocity of it cannot be good for his health.

“It - it is not that, my lady.” And _ah_ , there is that formal tone that he takes on during moments of embarrassment, the one that tends to make her embarrassed as well, and as his blush subsides she can feel hers begin to come on. “I just...I am afraid I seem to humiliate myself in front of you far too easily, so I may need a moment to ensure I choose my words carefully.”

It is a fair enough request, she supposes, since the very same thing happens to her around him, although Sidhiel does not understand what about her question could possibly cause him embarrassment. With Cullen, however, it could truthfully be anything, so she remains silent, deciding whichever explanation he chooses is likely to be the best.

“I suppose,” he beings after a minute’s silence, still not allowing his eyes to meet hers. “That it must have been a few weeks after your initial arrival at Haven. You came down near every day to check on the troops - I still do not know if you are aware of what a positive effect your presence had on them.” She does not want to correct him that the main reason she came down so often was to see _him_ , although the reminder of the fact coupled with his own ignorance to it brings her flush back full-force.

“We were speaking about...something. I cannot for the life of me recall what it was, which must speak towards its importance, or rather lack thereof. And I said something that made you laugh.” He pauses again, busies his hands with shuffling the papers on his desk, and she does not know why but Sidhiel cannot quite remember how to breathe. “It wasn’t quiet, or polite, or restrained, but you laughed with your entire body, as if it were the most humorous thing you had heard in your life - even though I am certain it was far from it - and all of a sudden you were no longer the Herald of Andraste. You were just...you were just a person, who was laughing at one of my pathetic attempts at a joke. It was one of the loveliest things I had ever seen.”

She doesn’t know what to say. _He_ doesn’t know what to say either, judging from the shell-shocked look on his face, and for a moment Sidhiel has to fight the unbelievable urge to just...run. To where she does not know - the walls of Skyhold are towering and thick, but perhaps she can steal the Hart from the stables, ride it down to...to wherever it sees fit to take her.

But she cannot seem to move her feet, so instead she simply stares.

“I’m sorry. That was - that was a strange thing to say.”

“No!” The word escapes her before she is even aware she is speaking, slipping out before she can stop herself. “Not weird at all. That was -” She’s standing by his desk, hands fluttering in front of her uselessly as the words she tries to search for lie just out of reach; she is skilled in magic, but it is here where her weaknesses lie, in finding the right words to say at the time in which they need to be said.

And he still won’t look at her, won’t even meet her gaze, and she’s so desperate to do _something_ that she’s moving towards him before her brain even registers it.

It’s no more than a peck, really. Just a graze of her lips across his cheek, lasting less than a heartbeat. But it’s enough for her to feel the slight prick of his stubble, enough to register his scent - he smells like old parchment and the wisps of smoke from a blown-out candle and freshly-sharpened steel - and it is burned into her memory, hot as a fire. She is there for long enough to hear his slight intake of breath - sharp, quick, just as shocked as she.

Then it is over, and they’re both staring at one another, neither quite sure what to do.

“Well then.” She’s the first to break the silence, walking backwards towards the door. “Thank you. For the - for the thing.” She doesn’t know what _thing_ she is talking about, only that if she does not leave immediately there is a large chance that she may do something...something dangerous. Whatever that means.

“Of course, your worship.” Cullen’s voice is steady, calm almost, and she sort-of wants to kill him for that, the only thing keeping him safe being the fact that his face is nearly the same colour as the red of his cape, letting on that he is likely faring no better than she. Sidhiel thinks he may be preparing to say something else, but she does not stick around to listen - she is out the door of his office and gone before he gets the chance, purposefully ignoring the looks of those she passes as she rushes by.

She knew she cared for him. She knew he was attractive. She had known that for ages, possibly since the first time she had met him. But this?

She walks as quickly as her feet can carry her, and knows that _this_ may just be something she has never known before.


	8. complement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _complement:_ something that fills up or completes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 10000% un-proofread so it's likely littered in typos, but i wanted to get it posted before i head to physics in a few moments. hopefully in a few hours i'll be able to check everything through, thank you guys for bearing with me! :) xx

The thing is, Sidhiel doesn’t know anything about chess. Absolutely, completely, nothing.

Well, perhaps to say nothing is to do herself a bit of a disservice. She knows _some_ things, but most are basic knowledge picked up from casual observation and half-arsed attempts at games, not from committed practice. It is enough to allow her some sort of passable talet, but for the most part the game is as foreign to her as magic is to a dwarf (to a dwarf who is not Dagna, she corrects, although she feels that there are many situations in which Skyhold’s chipper young Arcanist is somewhat of an exception to the rule).

All together, her knowledge of the game is mediocre at best, laughable at worst. There was not much time for the First of Clan Lavellan to be messing around with shemlen games, and to be quite honest she had not even heard of it until her initial arrival at Haven. Cassandra had explained the basics to her and they had had time for a handful of games, but neither were taken very seriously, and the fire raining down from the sky combined with the appearance of what was quite possibly an Archdemon had meant that she had had little time to hone her skills. Not as much time as, say, an entire childhood.

So when she beat Cullen the first time they played, she was, to put it in the plainest of terms, confused.

Confused, and slightly suspicious as well. She did not _think_ he would have let her win - Cullen is one of the most honourable, unfailingly honest people she has ever met, and the thought of him lying simply to bolster her ego seems almost so impossible she could laugh. The second time they play she loses, not miserably, but she does, and she tosses her suspicions aside and chalks her initial win up to simple dumb luck.

Except they play a third time, and she wins again. And then a fourth. On the fifth she loses, but only by a hair.

It’s just...it’s just ridiculous, to be frank. Sidhiel has only been in the world for twenty two years but she likes to think that she’s has had enough life experience to know when she is being messed with, and there is absolutely no way in any possible reality that she could beat the Commander, a man who openly admitted to spending half of his childhood perfecting the game, at chess - not once, not twice, but beat him on three seperate occasions. He’s subtle, she’s perfectly willing to give him that much credit, but it is not enough to slip past her, not even close.

He’s letting her win, there’s no doubt about it; the only thing that’s escaping her is _why_

…

When she beats him for the fourth time she cannot stop herself from saying something.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford, explain yourself.” 

She’s not actually mad at him, not really - if he gives her some sort of bullshit reasoning, well, _then_ she might get angry, but at the time all she feels is irritation, coupled with a small dash of curiosity. It’s Cullen, so she’s certain that his intentions are nothing if not pure, and while that knowledge helps to quench her instinctual urge to snap at him it does nothing to sate the lingering annoyance. Does he honestly think that she needs to be coddled? That she cannot handle the knowledge that she is not indomitable? Solas had said that to her, back when they first met, and instead of feeling flattered she had just felt frustrated.

Because she knows what she is. She’s always known. She’s not indestructible, not immune to failure. She _can_ lose. She _might_. It is a fact that she has accepted, and perhaps she’s reading too much into the result of a little chess game, but Sidhiel cannot help but feel as if the two go hand in hand. As if Cullen is trying to convince her that she is always a force to be reckoned with, in everything that she does, even if she does not have as much confidence of the fact herself.

Except it’s not a matter of how much confidence she has, it is a matter of her being realistic in her expectations of herself. There is, she knows, an impossibly large difference.

“Explain what?” He looks genuinely baffled; either he is a brilliant actor, or he simply does not know to what she is referring. She’s got a sneaking suspicion it is the latter - Cullen is far too honest to lie so well. At least, she had _thought_ he was, but perhaps she does not know him quite so well after all. “Have I done something to offend you?”

And _Elgar’nan’s balls_ , she wishes he weren’t so genuinely kind all the time. For the most part she finds it to be sweet, but when she is trying to be unhappy with him the genuine kindness that seems to radiate out of every pore of his being makes it exceptionally difficult. She wonders if he knows, if he does it on purpose - but _no_ , if the chess thing is a stretch then the thought of Cullen intentionally manipulating her is a sheer impossibility.

“Oh please, don’t play the innocent with me. Explain why you are letting me win each time we play! I’m not so delicate, you know - perhaps you have never heard the story, but I _have_ been face to face with an ancient Darkspawn and an Archdemon and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Getting my arse handed to me in a game of chess isn’t going to shatter me.” And _ah_ , now he has the decency to look sheepish, flushing that brilliant colour that she adores so much, and if she thought sweet Cullen was difficult to hold a grudge against, then blushing Cullen must be fifty times worse,

But no, she’s stronger than that, far too strong to be taken down by a pretty face. That strength is the only thing that has kept her from being complete putty in Cassandra’s hands thus far - if she can keep herself relatively together with the seeker, then she is more than capable of doing the same with him.

“Yes, well,” He’s stalling, she knows, trying to think up an excuse that will get him off easier than telling the truth, and she says nothing - she simply raises a brow at him expectantly, making it clear that nothing but the whole story will be accepted, and she had not thought it to be possible but he appears to grow even redder. “Are you...are you going to be angry?”

At that she laughs - she cannot help it. “Shit, Cullen, are we children? It depends on your answer; if you come up with some sort of garbage excuse, like that you were trying to protect my pride or something equally absurd, then _yes_ , I will be angry. But if there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this - which, knowing you, I’m certain there is - then no, I won’t be. So long as you agree to stop doing it, that is.”

He seems relieved, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly, and she wants to scoff if it weren’t almost...cute, the way he was so horrified by the prospect of upsetting her. A little annoying, still, since anger is a perfectly reasonable emotion to experience and Sidhiel does not think she needs _protecting_ from it, but she suspects that his desire to keep it at bay comes from far too personal an experience with it before. She knows little of his life before the Inquisition, but has more than enough evidence to suspect that he and anger were more than well acquainted. 

“I just...I thought if you lost too often, you would get bored and would no longer want to play.” He won’t meet her eyes, staring intently at one of the pieces of the board, and she wonders what it is he might be seeing when he looks at it. “I enjoy spending time with you. I know you are exceptionally busy, as am I, and this is one of the few times a day when we actually have a moment together. Without, you know...everything else. I did not want you to lose interest and fill your time with...with someone else. Selfish, I suppose.”

It’s amazing, the way in which she thinks she has him pegged and yet somehow he managed to take her by surprise, each and every time.

“Forgive me, Your Worship. That was far too forward. I should not have spoken so freely.”

She wants to tell him not to be so silly, that just a week prior she had kissed his cheeks and she certainly had not uttered a single apology. She wants to tell him a _lot_ of things, a lot of things she herself does not even know if she could put into words, but she cannot seem to remember how to move her lips.

This seems to be a common theme with the two of them as well - him, rendering her speechless. It had never happened before, not with anyone other than him. In fact, Sidhiel had always imagined herself to be quite smooth, to not fluster easily in the least. But the first day she had met him she had become a fumbling, blushing fool, and it appeared that that dynamic was more than likely to weave it’s way throughout their entire relationship.

It was either infuriating or fascinating, the things that he could do to her simply by saying the right thing. She had yet to discover which.

“Cullen,” It’s a minute before she’s able to form a coherent sentence again, and her voice still wavers with an emotion she cannot place. “I told you the first time we played - I enjoy spending time with you as well. That _includes_ getting my arse handed to me in chess, because let’s be honest, we both know I’m horrible at it.” At that he laughs, relaxing even more, and she’s beyond thankful that most of the awkwardness is gone.

‘Both of the time I won were actually unintentional. I was _attempting to lose - you just played so terribly that it was impossible.”_

“Okay, _now_ you’re just being cruel.” Except she’s laughing too, most of her irritation fizzled away, and it’s amazing to her, that he’s the first person who had been able to talk her down from well...anything, without even really trying, by simply being exactly the sort of person that he was. Amazing, and terrifying. She thinks the two might go hand in hand. 

Except this is a good fear, the kind she does not want to run away from - maybe she had tried, at first, but when he smiles at her her stomach drops and it only serves to make her want to move her chair a few inches closer, to loosen the curls from the slick of his hair, to press another kiss to his skin, this time to the base of his neck, to inhale the same scent she had gotten a hint of the other day, the one that had scent a shiver down her spine and caused her toes to curl, the one that was uniquely and totally _him_. She wants every bit of him, wants him so badly she forgets how to breathe, want to - 

Wants to, but does nothing. 

They clear the board and start their game anew. 

(This time, he does not let her win. She never thought she could enjoy failure quite so much). 


	9. take this body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is entirely, she decides, Josephine's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i am SO SORRY for how horribly i failed with this.
> 
> my last semester of school was an utter nightmare, and i lost any and all muse i had for this story. some of it has returned, albeit a bit (way) late, so i really really hope this chapter is okay (and that you guys don't hate me completely).
> 
> coffee; black will be updated next, i swear it.

It is all, she decides, Josephine’s fault.

It’s Josephine’s fault because she mentions that Commander Cullen has been looking exceptionally handsome lately (he _has_ been, which is the most horrible part about it), and it’s Josephine’s fault because she is merciless with her teasing - although that’s equally Leliana, and Varric, and...well, it’s pretty much everyone that they know, but the Antivan woman is one of the instigators - and it’s Josephine’s fault because they’re having tea one day when she says it.

And Sidhiel had been perfectly content with ignoring _it_ for as long as possible.

“So,” she looks far too pleased for the elf’s liking, far too much like the cat who ate the canary, and Sid contemplates spilling her tea all over her by ‘accident’, but the other woman is speaking before her hand can even twitch, “You and the Commander have been spending a lot of time together. Some might even say a _curious_ amount.”

She’s going to murder her. She’s honestly, truly going to.

But then Sidhiel reminds herself that Josie is exceptionally useful, and she does kind-of adore her (even if she’s being a meddling...shit, who is she kidding, she can’t even insult her in her thoughts), so she settles for a sharp glare and an awkward cough.

“Not curious, Josie.” Because it’s not, really, they’re just friends who sometimes fluster one another and she sometimes thinks about him when she’s in the bath and she _sometimes_ catches herself staring at his lip, at the pretty little scar that cuts right through it, and she’s sometimes certain that he sometimes catches her - but honestly, friends. “Completely normal. He’s the commanding officer of my armies, and I’m his boss, and we sometimes spend a short amount of personal time together.”

“Of course. Tell me, how long did you two play chess for yesterday?”

“ _That’s_ -” Oh, shit. Her face reddens slightly and Sidhiel shifts her eyes away, not wanting Josephine to see her flush. “A couple of hours. No longer than you and I have been having tea!”

Josephine simply stares, bemusement and knowledge flickering in her dark eyes, a pleased smirk playing at her lips, and Sidhiel is well aware that _she_ is well aware that it’s a bold-faced, poorly executed lie.

…

From then on out, it’s all that she can think about.

 

(See? Completely and utterly Josephine’s fault).

Cullen brushes up against her shoulder during a war meeting; SIdhiel pictures his arm wrapped around her waist as they walk the ramparts, the touch casual but exceptionally intimate, pictures the way the sun would look reflecting off his golden curls when he pulls her close - wait, _no_ , it’s entirely inappropriate and she pushes it immediately to the back of her mind.

But then he meets her eyes from across the table as they eat supper and she is drawn in even deeper; she imagines him in her quarters, the only light coming from the glow of the flickering fire and the moonbeams that filter in through the stained glass, she imagines the burning intensity in his eyes, similar to that of when he’s on the battlefield but this is different, this is _raw_ , it’s not about violence or victory but about passion and love and -

Shit, she’s lost.

She’s totally, completely lost.

Perhaps the worst part of all is that she can tell that Cullen can tell that something is off - because, and Sid hates to admit it, but they know each other. She has shown him perhaps more of herself than she has shown any other, save for Josephine and Dorian, and he has revealed to her his scars and his wounds and his bruises and it kills her, the way that she has to draw herself away from him, but the closer she gets the deeper she gets and it’s…

It’s terrifying.

Because he’s her commanding officer of her armies and she’s his boss and she can’t feel this way about him, can’t feel _this_ \- it’s not love, not entirely, because she may be the leader of the Inquisition but Sidhiel is still young yet, still has too much to learn about life before she can quite understand that, but it’s something, and it’s real.

And it’s terrifying.

…

“I was wondering if we could talk?” The air is heavy, weighed down with tension and words yet unspoken. “Alone?”

It is he who approaches her. Dawn has hardly cracked and Sidhiel had made her way to his office to receive her monthly report on their troops - coming along nicely, he had informed her, they may be hope for them yet - and she had been on her way out of the door when he had gone ahead and ruined it all by being perceptive, the arsehole.

(The worst part of all is that she’s relieved, really, because she knows that there are things that need to be said and done and _fixed_ , and Creators help her but she misses him like oxygen).

“Alone?” Sid is fully aware of the way her voice squeaks on the second syllable, but thankfully Cullen says nothing about her uncomfortable cough or the way she shuffles back and forth on her feet, feeling beyond awkward. “I mean right, yeah, obviously. Alone. For sure.”

Her solace comes from the fact that, as he offers her his arm his smile is just as weak and unsure, and she’s not entirely positive but Sidhiel thinks that under her fluttering hands she can feel his arm shake. It’s odd, thinking that he may in fact be as affected by her as she is by him. Not so much a surprise, because she is not fool enough to have missed the blushing or the stuttering or the way his eyes lingered just a fraction too long, but...odd, because he is a templar and a she - _human_ \- and she is an mage and an elf.

But her hand is on his arm and he is not taking her anywhere, he is letting her lead, and for whatever reason everything that is possibly wrong about their situation...does not, in fact, feel wrong at all.

They walk in silence, and typically their quiet is peaceful but Sid thinks that in this case it’s nothing other than _painful_. She can practically hear the tension the two of them are carrying, or she would be able to were her heart not pounding so heavily in her chest it drowned out all other noise. Each of them are waiting for the other to speak, she knows, but neither wanted to be the first to bite the bullet.

It is him, eventually, and she adores him even more for it.

“It’s a...nice day.”

 _Shit_. If anything that simply makes things even more awkward, and Sidhiel probably would have felt terribly for him were she not trying so desperately hard not to burst out into hysterics. It isn’t even particularly funny, more that she’s just so dreadfully uncomfortable that she has no idea how to behave. But poor Cullen looks as though she might explode and just once, she thinks, she shall take pity on him.

“It is, isn’t it?” He looks exceptionally relieved, like he might kiss her, and she _wishes_ he would, but she’s talking in a rush before she can even begin to contemplate (for the millionth time) how his lips might feel moving against her own. “You wanted to talk about something?’

Cullen looks as though he might have hoped she had forgotten, coughing into a gloved hand before answering. “Right. Yes. Talk. Well...things have been different between us lately. You must have noticed it as well.”

“I have.” And this is it, this is _it_ , she feels as though she can hardly breathe.

“I just...wanted to apologize, for if I have made you uncomfortable in any way.”

She’s shocked. Utterly disbelieving. Because this - _this_ was not the conversation they were meant to be having. “Why in the name of Mythal’s arse would I be uncomfortable? And if I was uncomfortable, do you honestly think me the type not to say anything about it?”

“No! No, it's simply because,” he’s stuttering now, running his hand through his hair, and he won’t meet her eyes and she’s _furious_ , furious that he would even be considering this, but it’s oddly endearing as well, the way that he is so concerned about her feelings. “Well, I’m a former templar, and I’m a human. I thought perhaps that my...my _affections_ might bother you.” Creators, she didn’t think it was possible for him to blush quite so much, and she wants to reach out and stroke his cheek but she’s far, far too mad for so tender an action.

It's funny, because it's exactly what she had been worrying about just moments before. But then she thinks about all of the other things in her life that she has to be bothered by, all the other things that have gone horribly, _impossibly_ so, and yet again she is reminded of the not-wrongness of it all. The not-weirdness. The way it almost feels like it's the way things are supposed to be.

So instead Sidhiel glares, clear eyes narrowing, and takes a bit of delight in the way that he takes a small step back.

“Cullen Rutherford, you utter fool. Does my being an elf and a mage bother you?”

“Um, well...no. Not at all.”

“So why should I be bothered?” With a sly smile she stepped closer to him, closing the gap that his small flinch had left. “I don’t care, Cullen. Maybe I would have this was a year ago, if I was still with my clan and you were still with the Order, but now...I don’t care. There’s a hole in the sky, my hand is green, a Tevinter magister is trying to kill me - I think I have better things to concern me than past professions and the shape of your ears.”

The realization that dawns on his face is so obvious it’s almost comical, and Sidhiel finds herself reaching out to grip his hand before he can find a way to back out once more. “Do you see?”

“ _Yes_ ,” and the word leaves him like a breath, whispered, awed. 

“Good. Shall we talk more about these 'affections' of yours, then?” He laughs, " _Yes_ , and she’s grinning, and then he’s kissing her and she forgets everything except for the way her body curves against his, the stone against her back, the scrape of his stubble against her cheek, the press of his lips - asking, not demanding, always waiting for her consent - the drag of his hands through her hair, and he smells like burnt parchment and dripping wax and sweat and he tastes like _home_ -

They don’t even notice the poor scout standing awkwardly a few feet away. They don’t even mind.

It’s entirely, she knows, Josephine’s fault.

She’ll have to thank her later.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and crit are always appreciated!


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